When I raise my face, Monroe is slow-clapping. Asshole. “Good job, buddy,” he says. “But let’s not forget the symbolism of the pink bag either. You put the unicorn mug in thepinkbag.”
“Pink is innocent, Jung,” I protest, but it dies on my tongue. He’s so right. How did I miss it? “Is giving a woman a unicorn in a pink bag some new dating lingo for you want to bone her? I do not want to learn any new dating codes,” I say, then sigh heavily.
He raises his empty cup in anti-dating solidarity. Dude’s been burned too. As for me, I still have the tire tracks on my back from Quinn’s peel-out-of-town-with-the-engagement-ring act a year ago. “I hear ya.”
I shove thoughts of my ex and the ax she wielded to my heart aside, flashing him a cocky grin. “Though, to be fair, I do have a unicorn dick.”
Monroe stares blankly at me, like he’s not even going to dignify that with a response. Fair enough. “Let’s rewind to thirty seconds ago, please. The part about your brain going haywire.”
That’s the real issue. Even with the eight-mile run last night, even with the new plant—that reminds me, I need to water Jane, so I grab a water bottle and fill it—I’m still thinking about Rachel in new ways.
Wildly inappropriate ways.
I had a dirty dream about her last night, and I don’t need a dating code or a shrink friend to decipher it. I put her on her hands and knees on a raft in a stormy sea. I don’t think the dream means I want to visit a beach with her so much as show her the motion of the ocean. I woke up far too hot and bothered for a workday. “Seriously, how do I get these thoughts out of my head? Do I have OCD now too?”
From someone else, that might sound like a joke. But I mean it genuinely. It’s a legit worry, given what I deal with every damn day.
Monroe knows where I’m coming from, and he must read the seriousness in my tone, because his shifts too. This is the voice he reserves for patients. “I’m not your therapist,” he says, giving me his familiar caveat, “and I can’t diagnose you, but I don’t think you do. I do, however, think there are encounters in our lives that we can fixate on. Thatanyonecan fixate on, regardless of brain chemistry. Like, when a parent walks in on a teenager masturbating.”
I shudder. “It’s taken me years to get over that day.”
“That’s my point.”
I set the water bottle down on the counter, then I return to the dishwasher, grabbing the utensil basket. “All right. I’m going to go work out some more,” I say as I snag the forks and set them in a drawer. “Round up a few of the guys for some extra practice. Find a new hobby. Take up kayaking. I bet my contract permits that. Maybe woodworking. I already aced espresso-making. So I need something new anyway.”
“Relax, Carter. The best thing you can do in these situations is to acknowledge them. You did that already with Rachel. It defuses the awkwardness. If it’s still weighing on you tonight at her party, just make a joke, have a laugh, then move on for her sake. She’s probably way more embarrassed than you are. And then, focus on all the reasons you like being friends with her.”
That’s brilliant. I smack the counter like I’m nailing an answer on a quiz show. “She was my jigsaw puzzle club partner in high school,” I point out excitedly. “We could start a jigsaw puzzle club again. That’ll be friendship vibes for sure.”
“Great. Maybe get her a puzzle before the party,” he says, then checks his watch. “My first client will be here soon. I need to go dispensepaidwisdom.”
I point at the gleaming silver espresso machine. “Oh, I paid for that wisdom.”
“True,” he says with a smirk, then pushes back from the stool, standing. “But here’s some free advice for you. Try a Georgia O’Keeffe puzzle.”
I make a mental note as I put the spoons away. “New puzzle brand?”
“Yes, Carter. I keep up on puzzle brands,” he says dryly. Then he leaves for his office in the townhome next to mine.
I swivel away from the open drawer. I’ll finish putting these dishes away in twenty seconds. Just need to know more about this puzzle maker. Grabbing my phone from the counter, I google Georgia O’Keeffe.
Fucking Monroe.
She’s that artist who painted flowers that look like vaginas.
The downside of a neighbor who’s a therapist is there’s someone right next door to mock you.
I click over to my texts and fire one off.
Carter: Look for a delivery later. A book of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings. Think of it as a map. I know dinosaurs roamed the earth the last time you were up close and personal with a real one.
Monroe: Pot. Kettle.
Dammit. He’s too right.
But I still like the puzzle idea. I hop over to my to-do list and addLook for non-unicorn, non-Georgia O’Keeffe, non-pink puzzle.
Then, a new calendar item pops up. An invitation from Rachel. I open it.Water Jane, you badass plant daddy.